Evermore
by Musik34
Summary: Booth and Brennan have a chilling case with missing children. As the mystery deepens, something is causing Booth to have hellish nightmares. BBish.
1. Trippin

_**AN**__: So be prepared for some weirdness (but not crazy-this-is-waaaayyyy-too Au-ish kind of weird). I don't own Bones. If I did, Booth would be shirtless more often. Mistakes are mine, since I'm too lazy to invest in a beta. _

**Chapter One: Trippin'**

"_As I was going up the stair,_

_I met a man who wasn't there._

_He wasn't there again today. _

_I wish, I wish he'd stay away."_

_--Hughes Mearns_

**3:00 A.M.**

Flashes of red ripped across Booth's vision in his sleep. He thrashed around in the covers, caught in the midst of a nightmare. The world spun around him wildly as the walls of his prison waved in and out. The floor was like an ocean as skeletal hands and bloating bodies reached for him in the tiled-waves. Maggoty faces rushed at him from nowhere, the rancid stench overpowering his damaged senses. Covering his face, he tried avoiding the grisly images until a childlike voice screamed into his ear. He jumped back to see the rotting corpse of one of the missing kids he was currently investigating. Donna Willows, nine years old and on the swim team. Donna Willows, now mutilated and facedown in a puddle of muddy, bloody water. The head jerked up, and the face transformed into his own son, Parker. He tried sprinting, but his feet were bound, sinking into the floor as his son turned to dust before his eyes. He tried yelling but no sound surfaced from his constricted throat. Panic gripped him as blackness began wrapping it's bony fingers around his neck. He felt himself struggling for air, choking until a loud crash resonated in his head, causing Booth's eyes to snap open. Immediately he wretched out the bile and vomit that was in his mouth. Gasping for air and covered with sweat, Booth crawled out of his bed and landed on the floor. Not even bothering to lift himself, he pitifully clawed his way across the carpet to his bathroom.

_What's wrong with me?_

He felt feverish, and his chocolate eyes darted around the darkened room. He felt like he was in a House of Mirrors, but instead of seeing his distorted reflection, the walls were spinning as if he were still trapped in his nightmare. On unsteady legs, he tried to stand using the toilet as support. He reached out for the light switch, but his hand touched the wall instead. _What the hell? My hand's right over it! _Fumbling around, he finally discovered the light switch--which appeared to be on his toothbrush! Shaking his head, Booth tried running cold water over his face. His vision blurred as stationary objects seemed to come alive. Another crash jerked Booth around. On the mirror, inky red words began to form.

_Up the stairs they go…_

Booth clenched his eyes shut, groaning, "No…God, not again." He ventured a look, just to see if the haunting phrase was still forming. Instead a black figure stood inches from his face, all features vague and indistinct. Still, the sudden appearance caused Booth to jump back. Slipping on spilled water and his sudden lack of coordination caused Booth to fall hard, cracking his head against the sink. Darkness crept in, and the last thing Booth saw was the glowering stranger and a vortex of twirling bathroom walls…

**8:34 A.M.**

Booth's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight shone brightly into his bedroom, something Booth wasn't accustomed to seeing, since he was out the door for work before sunrise. _Shit…I'm late. _He lifted his head, only to find a sharp flare of pain to follow. Wincing, he touched the back of his head and discovered matted hair. Sitting up from the bathroom floor, hazy memories came back to him. A small puddle of blood was on the floor, no doubt from when he hit the sink. He looked warily to the mirror, expecting to find the beginning of the eerie poem he knew all too well. Instead, he only saw his reflection.

"What the hell?" Booth murmured. _Did I just have some crazed nightmare or what? _He walked out into the bedroom and found his covers were in a jumbled heap on the floor, his alarm clock blinking. He grabbed his gun from the nightstand and made his way cautiously to the living room. His St. Michael's medal hung loosely from his neck and bounced off his bare chest, and he sent a quick prayer that he wouldn't need to fire his weapon today. _Someone was in here with me. No way I could have dreamt that…_

A pounding on Booth's front door made him freeze and draw his gun to the sound. He crept carefully to the side as the relentless banging continued. Just as he was about to throw open the door a familiar voice called out, "Booth? Open up, it's Brennan. Are you okay?"

Blowing out air, Booth placed his gun on the bookshelf and opened the door. Dr. Temperance Brennan stepped back, clearly surprised. "Booth, it's half-past eight, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I overslept. Rough night," Booth answered, trying to sound casual. Brennan frowned and squinted her eyes in confusion. She reached out and turned his head to the side.

"Hey!"

"Booth, what happened! You have a huge cut on your head," Brennan demanded.

"That's why I overslept," he muttered. Shaking her head, Brennan made her way inside his apartment and headed straight for the bathroom. Pulling out a first-aid kit, she did not miss the blood on the floor.

"You hit your head in the bathroom?" Brennan asked. Booth followed, answering, "I slipped on some water after a really trippy nightmare. It's not a big deal, Bones."

"Sit," Brennan ordered. She pulled out peroxide and a washcloth from the sink.

"I don't need a nurse, I need to get ready for work," Booth said benignly.

"You need someone to thoroughly clean the wound, or it could become infected," Brennan retorted evenly.

Booth rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He grinned wickedly and replied, "You just want to see me shirtless longer." To his over-inflated ego, Brennan's cheeks flushed red. Her eyes whipped down to the peroxide and she muttered something incomprehensible.

"What was that, Bones?"

"I said I hope this hurts," as she applied the medicine to his split scalp. Booth hissed and she smiled, "Quit being a baby."

Booth rolled his eyes and Brennan asked, "Must have been a pretty bad nightmare, I take it?"

Booth sighed and gave a short nod. " _'Up the stairs they go'_…"

Brennan's eyes met his and she understood immediately. "We'll find something, Booth. The kids have only been missing for a few days."

"Which means they're probably dead," Booth muttered. "As happy as I am to say we haven't found any bodies, the more time that passes, the less they're likely to survive. The FBI has barely anything, and you have nothing period."

Before Brennan could answer, her cell rang loudly. Finishing cleaning Booth's cut, she answered, "Brennan."

She listened and confusion crossed her eyes. She looked to Booth and answered, "Yes, Cullen, Booth's okay…" Booth smacked his forehead, knowing he was about to catch hell. Before Brennan handed the phone over, she clarified, "He banged his head on the sink sometime last night, and it apparently knocked him out…no, Cullen, I wasn't _here_ when it happened, I came by this morning because I was worried…" Booth smirked and Brennan's eyes rolled heavenwards. "Yes, he's right here."

Booth took the phone and apologized, "Sir, I'm sorry--"

"I don't want to hear it. I find it hard to believe that one of my best agents was clumsy enough to almost crack his skull open," Cullen mused aloud.

"Accidents happen," Booth offered, keeping his tone even.

"Of course. Anyway Booth, I called because I have some bad news. Another child is missing. The call came in about twenty minutes ago. The bedroom was trashed, and the same signature was left."

Booth sighed and clenched the phone momentarily. "What's the address?" Cullen gave Booth the information and Brennan asked, "What happened?"

Booth answered steadily, "We have work to do."


	2. Encounter

**Chapter Two: Encounter**

Pink. That shade burst from every corner of six-year-old Lydia Groening's dainty bedroom. The carpet was soft and clean, the walls covered in a pale hue of the girl's favorite color. Her dolls, bedspread, even some scattered clothing flourished in the child's preferences. Looking up, glow in the dark stars were scattered on the ceiling, mixed with planets and comets. Booth thought sadly, _she must have loved these. She went to bed every night under the heavens. Who wouldn't have liked that?_

Moving to the center of the room, he could tell that hardly anything was out of place. Murmurs from the hallway and the sharp cries of the distraught parents yanked Booth back into reality, and he turned towards the mirror. Brennan came next to him, silent. Though her expertise in forensic anthropology was not required at the moment, she was beginning to sense that this would be another difficult case for her partner. She stood by his side, watching him closely as he took in the smeared, brown epithet.

_Up the stairs they go,_

_to the war _

_of evermore. _

"This is only the beginning," Booth muttered cryptically. "More kids are going to vanish, with only this message in their places."

"There is the possibility that the kidnappings will stop, or that ransoms will finally be made. It's obvious that most of the individual occurrences are connected," Brennan replied, analyzing the muddy substances on the mirror. "We should send Hodgins a sample of this. Have the photographers take pictures so I can get something for the team."

Booth motioned for the forensics team and stepped back with Brennan. "I don't know about you, but I sure as hell feel out of my element." Bluntly, he added, "We work with dead people, rarely with missing ones."

"I know what you mean. Nevertheless, no one has been confirmed dead, and I remember a very wise friend telling me that it's better that way. That you have something to look forward to," Brennan reminded him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Pulling out an evidence bag and slipping on one glove, Brennan cautiously approached Lydia's dresser mirror. She scraped some of the substance into the plastic and sealed the package for the Jeffersonian lab. Booth placed a hand on her lower back and guided her away from the mirror. Of lately, she did not mind this gesture and allowed Booth to get away with it often. If circumstances had been lighter, she would have teased him about it. One glance at his troubled face quelled any future attempts. The two of them stepped out to allow the crime scene unit to finish up.

Turning, Booth said, quietly "I'm going to ask the Groenings a few more questions, and then we can drop the message sample off at the Jeffersonian. After that, do you think I can talk to you? At the Diner?"

Brennan nodded, understanding that a fair amount of venting was at hand, along with the chance to bounce ideas and theories about the missing children off each other. "Sure, Booth."

He indicated his thanks with a small smile and headed downstairs to the living room. Halfway in his descent, Booth called back, "Oh, by the way, I have a splitting headache from this morning. I reserve the right to 'be a baby' later, as you so straightforwardly labeled me."

_Booth. Some things never change, no matter the situations. _

* * *

"Okay," Booth thought aloud while sipping on some coffee. "We have four kids--3 girls and one boy, ranging from ages 5 to 8. Lyon Riddick disappeared one week ago. Parents went to wake him for school, and he was gone. Donna Willows vanished after going down to her basement for a skateboard five days ago, and Sophie Rodriguez disappeared from her home four days ago. Today, Lydia Groening was reported. They all live within three blocks of each other and even attend the same private school--St. Luke's Academy for Children. The families are well-off."

Brennan finished chewing a French fry and added, "Three of the four have the messages, whether it appeared on the floor, mirror, or wall. Which one was the one that didn't fit?"

Booth took a long swallow of his coffee, and Brennan waited impatiently. "Sorry," he murmured. "This stuff's addicting, you know. The first kid--Lyon Riddick didn't have that damned poem or riddle or whatever the hell it is. But everything else makes the boy just like the others, so it would be smart to include him."

"And Hodgins is analyzing the evidence now, though I'm sure your forensic people already identified the material used for the words," Brennan assumed.

"They said 'dirt'. So I figured it wouldn't hurt to let the Jeffersonian try and find something slightly more specific about it," Booth acknowledged, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Brennan chuckled slightly.

"Hodgins hates that word."

"And I hate the riddle. It sounds like an annoying song lyric. We researched it, tried to find some meaning, but we have nothing solid on the rhyme," Booth sighed wearily.

Brennan finished her food and watched Booth down the rest of drink. His fingers were drumming anxiously on the table and the small tremors in the floor indicated his left foot and leg were jumping. She frowned, switching her guard on. _He doesn't get this nervous or upset about cases, even ones with kids. Something's wrong…_ Even though Brennan hated psychology with a fiery passion, she attempted to use it in order to help her best friend. "Booth…I'm getting the impression something else is bothering you."

"No," Booth said simply as he called for the check.

Relentless, Brennan tried, "Was it the nightmare, I mean you took a pretty nasty bump last night--"

"Son of a bitch, I said NO. It ain't that goddamned hard to figure out, Sherlock!" Booth barked suddenly. For a moment, his eyes took a crazed, feverish quality to them that made Brennan freeze. She saw him jerk his head and he blinked several times before the gentle brown orbs returned to normal. He looked at her with a horrified expression and his cheeks flushed bright red with sheer embarrassment and remorse.

Standing up and fumbling for an apology, he murmured, "Jesus…I'm sorry Bones. I didn't know where that came from. Umm…I have to leave…"

"Booth--" Brennan tried softly, trying to get him to stay. Endless scenarios to his sudden behavior change streamed into her mind. _Stress, caffeine overdose, or the worst, his skull may have been injured from last night. The slightest pressure on the brain can do so much damage…_she shook her head at the last one. _He's aware that he snapped at me, so that can't be it, can it?_

Booth grabbed the bill from a miserable young waiter with flaming red hair, and left the table immediately, leaving a bewildered, worried, and absolutely speechless Brennan.

* * *

He barely made it into his apartment.

Not even bothering with the lights, he tried shrugging off his jacket, feeling as if his head had been stuck in an oven. Tripping over a leg rest, he experienced an unexpected and the completely unnecessary urge to throw it out one of the windows of his third floor home. Instead, he kicked it and was shocked to see the small piece of furniture fly across the entire room and smash against a wall. Falling to the floor, he could have sworn he saw a little hole in the plaster now. Booth gazed at it oddly, wondering if he was dreaming. _Did I just put a hole in the wall? After that, my foot should be broken. This has to be a dream…_

Hr glanced at the clock and saw the LED numbers glow 12:29 p.m. It was only then did he realize that the sky was as black as night, as thick cloud cover blanketed D.C. and threatened to bring a downpour that would cause flooding. The air grew heavy, and Booth thought dimly that his apartment seemed to be changing. The digits on the clock blurred and the room began swirling again. He staggered into his bedroom, feeling as if he were about to pass out and vomit simultaneously. He collapsed onto the queen-sized mattress, and his eyes briefly rolled back as darkness nearly dragged him from consciousness. A coldness seeped into his bones, and he shivered. Booth fought the sudden need to slip into a deep, exhausted sleep and he forced himself to open his eyes. The stench of decay overpowered his senses and the black figure from last night appeared a foot from his head. Booth froze as a pair of blurred hands gripped the bed. Then slowly, the intruder sunk beyond sight, the head disappearing into the floor.

"Christ…" Booth gasped as his heartbeat suddenly quickened. It was pounding as if he had finished a marathon and his mouth felt like cotton balls. He reached weakly for the phone. _Ambulance…sick…feel like…feel like I'm almost dying…_his fingers brushed against the nightstand wireless phone, and he knocked it to the floor. Booth tried to stand on his feet, but to his alarm he could not even feel his legs. Breathing shakily, and almost to the point of hyperventilating, Booth lowered himself awkwardly to the floor. Grabbing the phone, he dialed 911.

He heard a click, and he breathed raggedly, "Operator…I need an ambulance--"

"_Up the stairs they go…you need to find them before they go to the war of evermore"_

Booth dropped the phone as if it were on fire. He stared at the offending object and scrambled away. His breathing became even more rapid, and violent trembles overpowered Booth's sick body. Thunder rumbled and lightning cut the sky sharply. By the window, the black figure reappeared. Booth felt himself struggling to stay awake, and the thought that he's be alone with this eerie stranger terrified him. Another bout of lightning cast the figure in a glow, the vague figures becoming distinct. Nothingness gripped Booth, and the last thing he saw before his mind shut down was the image of a young man, smiling sadly and standing over Booth's now motionless frame.

* * *

"Jesus Christ!"

Booth bolted upright, gasping. The storm had long passed, and the clock showed that several hours had come and gone. Wiping his brow, Booth stood cautiously. He felt like he had been hit by a semi, and his head rung much like a wino's would. Looking around, he saw that he had several messages, all from Brennan, asking him to come to the Jeffersonian, and that if he didn't want to talk about what happened this afternoon, she wouldn't press him. He searched for the phone and found it lying next to his feet. Distorted memories came back to him, and he groaned, frustrated and mystified. Not to mention his foot felt like he kicked a cement block. Booth surveyed his apartment, probing for one hint of an intruder. To his dismay, he found nothing at all.

_This is getting old fast. What the hell is going on?_


	3. Something's Wrong

_**AN: **__Sorry for the delay--unexpected traveling. Thanks to all who are reviewing!_

**Chapter Three: Something's Wrong**

Brennan sighed in frustration as she slammed down her office phone for the third time, the silence on the other end mocking her. Rubbing her eyes, she felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach as her mind replayed Booth's outburst in the diner. He appeared sick, feverish. But just as quick as his anger had surfaced, it had immediately been replaced with regret and guilt. He seemed like normal Booth again, and it left Brennan lost. She shook her head, not understanding, and despising the sensation. She was a genius--why couldn't she help her friend?

In Brennan's professional opinion, she was almost positive the knock to his head hadn't been fatal, but she was still one phone call away from driving to his house and dragging him into the E.R., just to make sure that he hadn't suffered a fracture, or wasn't bleeding in the brain. After all, he was neither answering his home phone or cell, and several hours had passed since he abruptly departed the restaurant. Another wave of uneasiness pounded against the inside lining of her stomach as she went to pick up the phone again. A knock on her doorway almost made her jump out of her seat.

Cam announced, "Hodgins got results from the soil sample that was found in Lydia Groening's bedroom…are you alright, Dr. Brennan?"

Sighing, Brennan rose from her seat and nodded in confirmation. "I'm fine, yes. It's just…I'm worried about Booth, that's all."

Cam frowned, concerned, and asked, "Is it the case?"

Brennan shrugged her shoulders and replied cryptically, "I hope."

Following Cam into the lab, she grimaced after observing that her top-notch team was either spinning idly on the lab chairs or staring off into space. Zach appeared to be counting ceiling tiles. "What are you guys sitting around for?" Brennan asked. Cam cleared her throat, wondering the same thing.

Angela flickered her eyes up from her sketchbook and clarified, "This is the first time in a long while when we haven't been working on the recent murdered/stabbed/burned/decapitated/mutilated--"

"We are waiting for some bones from limbo. Booth hasn't found any bodies for us to identify in his kidnapping case. I find it rather refreshing," Zach interrupted and admitted. Brennan looked around the platform, realizing that they were right. The lab was spotless, with the exception of Hodgins holding several evidence bags of soil.

"What do you have on the dirt?" Cam questioned as Brennan retrieved the samples

Hodgins narrowed his eyes and corrected, "It's not _**dirt.**_ It's adipocere, and the samples originate from the same location based on the levels of fatty acids in the soil."

"So Donna Willows and Sophie Rodriguez both have grave soil in their rooms? All that gives us is more evidence that the disappearances are linked," Brennan murmured.

"What about the first kid? Lyon Riddick?" Hodgins asked.

"There was no sample found in his room, or message for that matter," Brennan confirmed.

Cam let out a low whistle and agreed, "Booth's definitely not going to like that."

"I don't understand," Brennan directed her inquiry to her boss.

Cam leaned back and explained, "Think about it. Lyon goes missing. Then several kids follow with soil from a human grave in their rooms. If I were a psychotic serial killer jerking around with law enforcement, the dirt would have been from where I buried Lyon."

"You're making assumptions and jumping to too many conclusions. Lyon could still very much be alive," Brennan pointed out. More forcefully, she added, "we need evidence before we decide these kids are as good as dead."

Cam clicked her tongue. "I understand that, Dr. Brennan, but from what we have so far, the outlook isn't so bright. If you want to look at this objectively, just take a look at the statistics--"

"54.6 of statistics are falsified," Zach butt in. Everyone turned their heads and gaped at their colleague. Hodgins finally asked, in mock horror, "Zach, did you just make a joke? What is this world coming too?"

"Enough," Brennan shook her head. The case was irritating her, and Booth's behavior had sent her nerves into overdrive. She was so tense, she barely noticed the shrill ringing of her cell. She was in such a hurry to answer she almost dropped it. Hoping the call was from Booth, she answered quickly, "Brennan."

She heard a soft click and static on the other end. It almost sounded as if there was a soft wind in the background, mingled with a labored breathing. Brennan started pacing and asked attentively asked, "Booth?"

Cam tapped Brennan on the shoulder and whispered, "Booth just came into the lab…" Brennan whipped around and saw Booth trudge up the stairs to the platform. His clothes were wrinkled and his eyes were dark and hollowed. Overall, he looked ten years older, and it made Brennan sick with anxiety. A tremendous crash and harsh gasping on the phone made Brennan freeze. A rush of static followed before a deathly still silence.

And then in the quiet, _"He needs to find them…we both can't rest…evermore"_

There was a final slam and dial tone reached Brennan's ears. Booth touched her shoulder gently and demanded, "Who was that?"

"I don't know, but I think it's the guy…" Brennan trailed off.

Booth motioned with his hands to clarify, his face almost exasperated. "Gotta be a little more clearer than 'guy', Bones."

"He said 'he needs to find them, we both can't rest' and then 'evermore'. That guy, Booth, who else would I be talking about?" Brennan defended.

"How the hell did he get your number?" Booth said as he Brennan handed over her phone. He dialed star sixty-nine, his face set in disdain. Someone got Brennan's cell--the last thing he needed to worry about was Brennan having a stalker. He doubted whoever called his partner would answer, but at the very least he could get their number…

The thick silence in the lab was shattered when Booth's cell rang in his coat pocket. Brennan's eyes widened as she uttered, "That's impossible."

Booth dug his phone out and flicked it open roughly. Brennan's number flashed on his screen and he shook his head, stunned. "What the hell…"

"What the hell doesn't even cover it. Brennan gets a freak call from your cell while it wasn't even in use? What's going on?" Cam demanded. Hodgins and the others looked on uneasily.

"I'm just as thrown off as you, but I know it has something to do with my missing kids case…" Booth acknowledged. He turned to Brennan, almost meekly, and asked quietly so that the others wouldn't overhear, "I need to talk to you…something's happening to me…"

Brennan nodded, feeling a rush of relief knowing Booth trusted her enough to open up about what was wrong, and felt little trepidation. "We also have something back from the soil samples…where do you want to talk?"

Booths scrubbed his face and murmured, "I could really use some coffee right now. Like seriously."

Brennan offered a small smile, and refrained from pointing out that their coffee spot was becoming a second home of lately. Instead she returned, "The Royal Diner it is." She tried to get him to smile by adding, "Too much coffee stunts your growth."

Booth strained a grin and replied, "Guess Hodgins didn't get the message." Hodgins snorted, and for a moment things seemed to be back to normal. But Brennan could plainly see the distress in her partner's eyes, and still feel the tension on the platform between her colleagues and friends.

As the two of them left the Jeffersonian lab, Cam threw up her hands in bewilderment. Angela jumped down from her stool and asked, "Okay, what just happened?"

Cam groaned, "I don't know. I'm worried about Booth, did you see how horrible he looked?"

"Like he just got rolled over by a semi?" Hodgins threw in.

"He appears sick," Zach observed.

Pacing over to edge of the platform, Cam hugged herself, nervousness gnawing at her insides. To herself, she muttered, "That's not only it. Something's seriously wrong…this isn't right."


	4. Disturbances

**Chapter Four: Disturbances **

"According to Hodgins, the samples found in the girls' rooms is adipocerous--soil from graves, and from the same burial site," Brennan stated, watching Booth's reaction carefully. After gulping about half his coffee, Brennan cringed when he muttered, "Perfect. Kid One goes missing and three others follow with zombie dirt in their rooms. Absolutely perfect."

"Cam's thinking the same thing you are, that the boy--Lyon Riddick--is already dead--and I say not to jump to conclusions without the hard facts," Brennan tried gently. Booth leaned back, distracted.

"I don't know what to think anymore. I'm starting to wonder if I'm going crazy," Booth chuckled mirthlessly.

"Maybe you're having too much coffee," Brennan tried to joke. It fell flat though, seeing that Booth didn't even crack a smile. Trying another tactic, Brennan asked, "Did you talk to Dr. Wyatt?"

Booth shook his head, claiming, "He's in England for a week. And besides, if I tell him--if he knew what was happening to me, I'd definitely have a forced vacation. And I can't, I need to solve this case."

"Well…" Brennan trailed off. She placed a hand on his, and squeezing gently, Brennan added, "Maybe that's what you need."

Booth retracted his hand and replied, "Right now I need to find those kids--preferably alive."

Brennan sighed and decided to switch topics. She didn't want to agitate him by bickering: she was intent on discovering what was wrong with her partner. Swirling a spoon in her own coffee, she asked, "What's been troubling you?"

Booth rubbed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak when a man came up to their table and asked, "Agent Booth?"

Booth looked up at the slightly overweight middle-aged man and stood, recognizing who it was. Shaking hands he introduced, "Mr. Riddick, this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan. She's working on finding out what happened to your son."

Brennan offered her hand, but Lyon Riddick's father merely ignored her. Miffed, Brennan crossed her arms over her chest. Riddick stiffly asked, "Is it new protocol for law enforcement to take ten coffee breaks a day? I was here earlier and I saw you and your partner sitting on your asses doing nothing about my son's disappearance."

A vein in Booth's temple throbbed with indignation, but Booth calmly answered, "We are discussing the case right now. A father myself, I understand how frustrated you may feel, but I have to ask that you don't speak to my partner like that again."

Riddick snorted, "As you wish, Agent Booth. But my son deserves better than this--he always used to get what he wanted, and I suspect he'd be very angry knowing people were dragging ass." With that, he left an irritated Booth and Brennan at the Diner. On his way out, he shoved the waiter serving Booth and Brennan to the side and cursed at him.

"Okay, what in the hell was that about?" Brennan bristled. Booth sat back in his seat and commented, "My thoughts exactly."

"Was he like that when you first met him?"

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "He was a little off-kilter when I first spoke to him, but I contributed that to stress. He didn't even seem that worried at the time. Riddick is one of those guys who lives off an inheritance and doesn't give a flying crap about anyone else. He gets what he wants. Naturally, he'd feel the same way about his son."

"I feel like kicking him," Brennan observed. This time, she was able to get Booth to smile.

"That's normal when you start to look at him like a suspect."

"Guess that means we'll be seeing more of him, then," Brennan said.

Booth nodded and silence fell between the two of them. The air turned sulky, and Brennan felt that Booth was hesitating. Softly, she told Booth, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Booth shook his head, and rasped, "I know. But things are going to get really weird."

That was all the introduction he needed. "I've told you that I've been having nightmares. I see that little riddle, the missing kids--but they're dead and already decaying…I feel sick, and the room I'm in swirls. It feels so real, and I'm cold. And I honest-to-God feel terrified--real fear…and then I see _him."_

"Who's him?"

Booth shifted uncomfortably and a crash from the kitchen made him jerk. Diverting his eyes, Booth explained, "I don't know. He's just a figure, a faceless black phantom, almost. But a few hours ago, he kinda became more distinct. He was just an ordinary guy. But Bones…there's something I haven't told you yet."

Brennan locked her eyes with him and said gently, "Go on."

Booth took a deep breath and confessed, "They're not dreams. They're real. And I'm awake when all this happens. That _thing_ is real…I black out, and when I wake up again, everything is normal."

Brennan chose her words carefully. "Booth…are you trying to tell me that…some 'being' comes into your apartment?"

"No. I'm trying to tell you that I think I'm dealing with some kind of entity…" Booth cringed at his choice of words and flushed red after seeing the look of serious doubt cross her face.

"A ghost?" Brennan said evenly.

Booth's silence was her answer. Breathing out forcefully, Brennan stated, "I was really hoping you would tell me the truth--"

"Bones, this is the truth. You know I never lie to you--never," Booth pleaded.

Brennan closed her eyes, "I can't…you know I can't believe this whole notion of haunting and black ghosts and--"

"I know, but as your friend, I felt like I needed to tell you what was wrong," Booth said quietly.

"And as your friend, if you truly believe this, then I think you need some help," Brennan's voice squeaked. It was heartbreaking--she was seeing her partner's mental breakdown, and she was powerless to stop it. "You don't understand how this all sounds…and frankly, I've never felt so worried for you before."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Booth demanded.

Brennan studied him before saying, "I want you to go home and rest. I'll tell Cullen that you're sick. Please…"

Booth stood abruptly and gritted out, "Fine." He felt angry that he was being dismissed like this, that his partner wasn't going to believe him. The anger replaced itself with his own self-doubt. He knew he would sound crazy for telling her his suspicions, and that she would have a hard time accepting what he believed. Maybe he was going insane…that option seemed to be a little better than being haunted by a ghost. Brennan watched Booth leave and she shook her head sadly. She had come to the Diner looking for answers, but instead she would depart even more disturbed than before…

* * *

Drew Himmelman clutched his checkered comforter tightly as the oncoming storm threatened to make its way directly over the six-year old's roof. Sure, his parents were downstairs, fretting about his rising temperature, but Drew knew he would be too scared to go back to the living room for help. There was something in the air…it was growing heavier. His breathing increased and sweat ran from his forehead. He heard scratching on the outside of his window, and his green eyes widened with alarm. It was then that he noticed, that said window was still open.

"Mommy…" he called out meekly. His voice hitched in his throat when he saw a small puff form from his mouth. It was familiar--the tiny cloud that came when he was standing at his bus stop in the dead of winter, wrapped up in scarves and coats. He shook his head, not understanding: his icy breath was occurring in room-temperature.

Words began to form on the ceiling, and Drew nearly screamed as the caked mud dripped onto the floor.

"_Up the stairs they go…"_

A sudden rush of wind and a figure stormed his bedroom. Before Drew could yell he felt a suffocating darkness.

Five minutes later when his mother went to check on him, he was gone.


	5. Encounter II

_**AN: Wow. School. Is Hectic. I apologize to those who have been waiting for updates.**_

**Chapter Five: Encounter II**

Booth slammed the door to his apartment with a thunderous bang that reverberated through the walls and shook the picture frames. Stalking to the kitchen, he went to splash his face with cold water, trying to wash away the red fuzzy haze starting to invade his vision. He was angry for making himself seem more on the verge of a mental breakdown in Brennan's eyes, and disappointed that she totally disregarded his suspicions about what was happening. She didn't believe in the supernatural or ghosts and life after death, but he put stock in some of those things. Wasn't that enough? Partners watched out for one another, and occasionally, took leaps of faith. Booth rubbed his forehead and sighed, exhaustion setting in. Even as he stood there, he knew he could not blame Brennan. His accounts did rather seem insane.

A sudden crash from the living room made Booth whip around, jumping with surprise. Grabbing his gun from the counter, he made his way into the living room, expecting to see a burglar, and even prepared himself for disgruntled suspects and criminals that Booth had crossed paths with. _I locked the doors and windows though…there was no way he followed me into my house. Was the guy waiting for me beforehand? _Sniper training becoming instinct, Booth stealthily made his way into his semi-darkened living room. From a mirror on the wall, he could see an overturned footstool. Everything else was in its place, and Booth saw that no one had crossed the hallway to go into the bedroom or bathroom. Groaning with confusion and frustration, Booth lowered his weapon and turned the corner to the other room.

He almost yelped when he came face to face with the black shadowy stranger. Stumbling back, Booth raised his gun as a chill swept down his spine. The previous red haze in his vision exploded and he felt feverish, shaky.

"What the hell are you, and what do you want with me?" Booth demanded. He prayed that his voice was stronger than what he felt, and more confident than the terror he felt creeping into his nervous system. He felt his muscles becoming rigid, and numbness spread through his limbs. The gun clattered to the floor as Booth's hands now hung loosely at his sides. The figure loomed over him and Booth felt himself slide against the wall to his knees. _Why is this happening to me?_

Spying his landline, Booth used every ounce of energy he had and reached out weakly. He barely managed to dial a speed button, his thumbs and fingers feeling like lead. Having no idea who was on the other line, he whispered when he heard an answer, "He's here."

Booth stared up at the figure, helpless. And then the room started to spin.

* * *

Brennan's phone rang and Booth's name came on the screen. She debated answering it, contemplating if it was best to leave him alone right now. She certainly hadn't helped a thing at the Diner. Swallowing, she received the call anyway. She could still try to help…after answering, she heard her partner's strained, waning voice and Brennan's heart froze as he uttered, _"He's here."_

Brennan's bags and the spare key Booth gave to her in case of an emergency were dropped in the doorway as she sprinted to his fallen figure. With horror, she saw quickly that he was having a seizure, sickly white-yellow foam coming from his mouth. His hands were clenched into tight fists, and he was convulsing with a slow rocking, his limbs contorting as spasms rocked his body. A cold wind brushed against her neck and she realized they were not alone. She instinctively shielded Booth with her body and prepared herself for a blow to the head. Instead, nothing occurred. She looked up, breathing quickly as adrenaline surged through her veins, and saw an open window. Whoever was with them was now gonw. Turning her attention back to Booth, she pried his mouth open to make sure he wasn't choking on his own tongue. Grabbing the phone, she dialed 911.

"We need an ambulance at 1293 Hayden Street, apartment C3…"

Stroking Booth's hand, she hoped he would react, to know that she was there. Her heart ripped in two when he shook harder.

* * *

"Only family of the patient are allowed to—"

"I'm his sister, Dr. Temperance Booth. I made the hospital call," Brennan lied to the receptionist efficiently and quickly. Booth had secretly made a pact with her, that if either were in dire medical peril, they could pose as brother and sister in order to see each other. Grimly, Brennan noted, she had envisioned a future with that never happening.

"Oh," the young blonde receptionist stuttered, "Doctor Leiby is right around the corner, he'll explain what they had to do for Agent Booth."

It must have been the look of sheer impatienence and determination sculpted onto Brennan's face, because it was only moments before a scruffy, weary E.R. doctor met up with Brennan. They shook hands and Leiby acknowledged, "Dr. Booth?"

"What's wrong with Booth?" Brennan asked immediately. Leiby looked suspiciously at her, wondering why a sister would refer to her brother by last name. Too tired and way to busy to question, Leiby nodded in confirmation.

"We performed CAT scans and saw the cause of his seizures weren't neurological, which led us to a poison. We pumped his stomach and most of the side effects were immediately reversed. He still has some tremors, and is feverish. Any longer, and the drug would have absorbed into his system fully, and ultimately killed him."

Brennan paled, recalling that she almost didn't answer the phone. Leiby glanced at his watch and announced, "You can see him. His boss at the F.B.I. was contacted, as per what law requires, and I'll have rehab programs listed if you would like to try them."

Brennan blinked in confusion, her mind short-circuiting. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Why was Cullen contacted already, and what do you mean by rehab? I thought Booth was going to be okay…"

Leiby looked like he mentally slapped himself as he explained, "I apologize, Dr. Booth. It's been a long night. We received a new policy working in conjunction with the Narcotics unit of the F.B.I. that if agents were brought in for this problem, we were to alert the higher-up."

"Narcotics? What the hell kind of poison was in Booth's system?" Brennan tried to understand. Leiby's vagueness was irritating her enormously.

"Phencyclidine," Leiby finally stated before turning to leave. "Agent Booth almost overdosed on PCP.


	6. Denial

**Chapter Six: Denial**

It was that time of night where one could smell the damp air, feel the dew start to settle, and see the sky lightening from an opaque blackness to a sickly dreary gray. Brennan sat in the front seat of her car and placed her head against the steering wheel, at a loss. Her thoughts flickered back to Booth's hospital room, and an onslaught of images pounded her nerves. Cullen's outraged and disappointment in his best agent. Booth's denial, first firm and then almost pleading, haunted her. Everything had fallen apart in that room and Brennan did nothing to stop it…

_(Earlier)_

Booth felt like there was cotton lining the inside of his mouth and lead in his stomach. His head pounded fiercely and his body ached as if he'd been steamrolled. His vision was hazy and the insistent beeping of the heart monitor would drive him insane before dawn. His memory was vague, but he was slowly recollecting the events that landed him in the E.R. He didn't like what he was remembering. The pictures were broken, the words jumbled. Booth shuddered when the most clarifying memory was _him_: that _thing_ that was intruding on Booth's life and dreams, which ultimately sent Booth into spasms. The room spun slightly, and his heart rate picked up considerably as he waited for nightmare to fall again. Instead, he saw Brennan step from the shadows. He sighed in relief.

"Bones?' he croaked.

She looked haggard, and he realized that she was the one who found him. He recalled her soothing voice and the way she held him while he was caught in the throes of something he couldn't beat. _"He's here…"_ Booth started to wonder if his partner had a sudden change of mind. Maybe she sensed something in his apartment. Maybe she still thought he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Maybe he was dreaming the entire episode. Maybe he was already in the looney bin. Whichever reason drove Brennan to investigate his cryptic message was the reason why he was alive. His sore body filled with gratitude, and he tried to give her a lopsided smile.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes…"

She frowned, her eyes narrowing with what Booth alarmingly thought was disgust. "Whoa, Bones, it was only a compliment—"

Brennan seemed to come unscrewed, and she cut him off quickly and mercilessly. "Why didn't you tell me Booth? Why?"

Booth crossed his arms over his chest, confused and indignant. "About what happened? I tried to, but you wouldn't listen to me…" the room shook slightly and Booth caught a glance of the black phantom. Brennan watched as his eyes widened, half with fear and half with triumph.

"There! Bones, please tell me you didn't just see that?"

Brennan gritted her teeth. Forgetting the promise she made to herself to remain objective, she snapped, "Sorry Booth, all I see is someone who I thought was my friend still feeling the after-affects of phencyclidine. Why didn't you tell me you had a drug problem?"

"Drug problem? What the hell Bones?" Booth asked hoarsely.

"PCP, Booth. PCP. You almost overdosed tonight. It's what's been causing your hallucinations, not some 'ghost', which by the way could never happen in the first place and I thought we were partners, I could have gotten you help—" Brennan babbled. She froze in mid-sentence, trying to collect herself. Quietly, she finished, "You don't know how…hurt…and disappointed I am, Booth."

Brennan met Booth's eyes, which had turned cold. Calmly, he answered, "Hurt? Sorry, Bones, but _you_ think you were betrayed somehow? How do you think I feel? My best friend and partner clearly doesn't know me. I would never, ever touch drugs."

Brennan felt a pang of remorse. "What am I supposed to think? I'm sure Ghost Boy put them into your system…"

Booth actually smirked. "That was below the belt, but you just made a joke, so I forgive you."

"This isn't the time to be funny."

Booth sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what to tell you. You just have to believe me—I'm not on drugs, but I can't explain why this happened to me. I'm sorry."

Brennan exhaled and slumped her shoulders. This was Booth…surely there had to be some logical way…

The door to the room burst open, and Brennan grimaced when Cullen came stalking in. Not even acknowledging Brennan, Cullen lit into Booth.

"When I received a phone call saying that an Agent Booth was being treated for a PCP overdose, I could have sworn they had the name wrong. So this is why I am here, 4:30 in the morning, investigating instead of a narcotics agent!" Cullen jabbed his finger at Booth and bellowed, "What is wrong with you Booth?"

Booth paled visibly. He understood immediately why Cullen had been informed, and knew the Federal Bureau of Investigations' newly adopted policy on drug use. "With all due respect, sir, I'm not on drugs."

Cullen paced angrily and demanded, "What's your proof? Hmm? Why are you sitting in a hospital bed, after almost overdosing on said drug?"

Defeated, Booth sat back and replied, "I don't have evidence. I can only give you my word."

Cullen became very still and he stared intently at Booth. "There is a reason why we have this new policy. Everything, every case and every single piece of evidence or suspect you've come across will be placed under doubt and scrutiny."

"But I didn't—"

Cullen cut him off with a swipe of his hand. "You're suspended until an Internal Affairs agent investigates your current cases. You'll have to go in front of the board. From there you'll either be placed in rehab, reassigned…Booth you could get fined. Or jailed. Or fired. Either way, this is not how I imagined starting my day. You were my best homicide agent. What the hell happened?"

Booth shrunk back into his bed. In an almost shocked and clearly defeated voice, he murmured, "My gun and badge should be with my other personal affects." Embarrassedly, Booth looked up to Brennan and asked, "Could you…"

Wordlessly, Brennan went to the cardboard box full of Booth's belongings and handed over what Cullen wanted. The deputy director breathed out through his nose forcefully, as if disgusted. Brennan searched his face and discovered that his eyes were apologetic. Brennan felt another stab of regret as she realized she was becoming more like Booth everyday.

Cullen left quietly, leaving Booth and Brennan alone in strained silence. Brennan broke it, awkwardly saying, "I should go…"

Booth nodded mutely. Brennan hugged her arms and left without saying goodbye. She didn't know what to believe and it scared her. She despised that feeling. Leaving the hospital, she couldn't help but think, _how could this have happened? This is Booth…_. Much too exhausted to think, she numbly made her way to the car. Morning would come soon, and she dreaded breaking the bad news to the team. She wished that this nightmare would end soon.

Too distracted to notice, Brennan completely missed the shadowy reflection in her windshield. A whisper filled the air and reached Brennan's ears, as if tickling her._ "Up the stair they go…"_ Glancing up from her slunked-over-the-steering-wheel position, Brennan thought she saw a flutter of movement. Squinting her eyes, she searched outside, finding nothing but an empty parking lot. Disconcerted, Brennan turned the ignition and hurriedly made her way back to the Jeffersonian, towards the rising sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Due to tragic events, the author of this fanfic will not be able to post any new chapters for several weeks. Thank you and apologies for any inconveniences.


	8. Intervention

**Chapter Eight: Chapter Eight: Intervention**

Booth and PCP. Two things that I thought I would never have to think, much less actually see, happen in this lifetime. What the hell happened to you? What made you do that? Why didn't I know?

_Why didn't you come to me?_

Brennan sighed heavily as she quickly drove towards the Jeffersonian, matching the pace of her racing thoughts. The sun had yet to break the barrier where the sky met the city's boundaries, where the now glowing pink auras touched the concrete land. Angrily, Brennan wiped her eyes as tears of frustration, confusion, and disappointment threatened to leak out. She pushed the gas pedal harder in response and growled, "None of this is the way it's supposed to be. I'll be damned if I break because Booth did." With more conviction, she talked aloud, "You were supposed to be a man of honor. Everyone has dark moments, and even if this still could have happened, the Booth I know would have gotten help. Whether he talked to me or not. Men like you don't fall from grace like that, and they sure as hell don't go to prison!" She punched the horn for no reason, releasing a deafening and prolonged honk. Sitting back in her seat, breathing quickly as her anger subsided.

"No…" she finally brought herself to say. "This isn't real. I have to be wrong; it's just not logical…"

The sun finally showed its face, and the bright white rays momentarily blinded Brennan. Lifting her hand to see the road past the glare, she gasped aloud as a man with a black cloak and hood walked in front of her speeding vehicle. Slamming the brakes, the tires squealed in protest as Brennan fought to stop the car from colliding with the pedestrian.

_Too fast, too little space…gonna hit him, gonna hit him, can't stop!_

The walker turned his face to Brennan as her front bumper made contact with his waist…and continued to travel right through. Brennan felt a chilling rush as a shadow passed through herself and the rest of the car, and screams ringed though her ears. The car came to a stop just as a dump truck ran a red light across the street she was about to pass. The world was still and quiet once more. Fumbling with her seatbelt, her shaking hands were barely able to eject the safety device. Throwing the driver's door open, she mentally prepared herself to see the carnage her recklessness has caused. Not a stranger to car accidents and identifying completely ruined bodies, she understood there would be blood streaming down the length of the street, that bones would be shattered, and insides would be trailing from the car…and the stench of burst organs would be rank for hours. What she was not prepared to handle was that it would be. All. Her. Fault.

_He screamed. He knew it was happening. He knew. God, I'm going to be sick…_

The gawkers would come. The children would be fascinated, then have disgusting, twisted nightmares for weeks…why wasn't anyone out yet? Coming around to the rear of the car, her feet became rooted to the asphalt: the road was empty and clean. Her arms dropped limply to her side as she leaned against the trunk, blinking hard. Her eyes scanned the gutters, the sidewalks…no man in a black cloak, no witness was screaming for the cops, and more importantly no body strewn into pieces.

"I heard you yell…" Brennan breathed in shock. "I heard you!" she cried out. She crouched on her haunches, and fought to control her battered thought process. "You were speeding. You saw the man. You braked. You heard the scream…where's the bump?"

She paused. Then, "Why the hell didn't I feel the shocks? The car rattles going over squirrels, much less a person…"

_It's simple math, Bren. No bump, no victim. He was never there. You heard yourself screaming._

"…Lady? Hey lady! I asked if you're okay? Are you hurt?"

Brennan stood up jerkily. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." She saw that the elderly man before her had pulled his car next to her. Her eyes widened and she frantically asked for confirmation, "Sir, did you see a man in a black hood or cloak? He was in the street literally seconds ago, and now I can't find him."

The man pulled his hat off his balding head and carefully answered, as if speaking to an escaped mental patient, "Lady, all I saw was you slamming the brakes after flying down the street. Good thing too, if you hadn't. You could have been killed; that truck would have totaled your little sports car, including yourself. You almost gave me a heart attack: I thought I was about to see someone die. Old guys like me ain't supposed to go through that kinda shock." He began to ramble.

Brennan held up her hand, cutting the other man off. "Are you sure you saw no one? At all?"

"I did not. Do you need me to call for some help? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Brennan scoffed, "That's ridiculous. It's childish to believe in…." She stopped and stared hard at the street. Eerily, she asked, "I would have been hit?" The man shook his head in affirmation. She fumbled once more to find words, and haltingly, she announced, "There is no such thing as ghosts…now, if you excuse me, I need to go home."

Without another word, Brennan entered her car as the man glared curiously through the window. "Drive safer," he called out uncertainly as she started the ignition. "This is insane," she mumbled under her breath. "My emotions are overwrought: I need to go home and rest. I had a hallucination; that is all. The Jeffersonian can wait."

She drove 15 mph below the speed limit the entire way home.

* * *

Wearily, she dropped her keys onto the shelves next to her door and trudged into the darkened household, refusing to think about what occurred earlier in the street… which wasn't entirely that difficult considering that she had apparently imagined the whole thing.

_You would have died._

"Shut up," she murmured to herself as she fell back onto the sofa. She closed her eyes and directed her mind elsewhere. "The human cranium is composed of 8 plates, 14 facial bones, and an additional 22 skull bones. Those more likely to be shattered when identifying a victim that has suffered blunt force trauma to the skull would be the nasal bone, the temporal and occipital bones…." She smiled as she could feel her stress release. One could always depend on bones. She sniffed the air quite suddenly and found that her apartment smelled musty. Standing up, she opened a side window in hopes of a breeze. It only grew stronger, and Brennan found herself on high alert. She recognized the familiar scent…it was old, irony, raw. Not raw as in flesh, but as in the deep and enriched earth. She knew it from childhood, as did any other child who spent long hours playing in the dirt, splattering mud in the fields after a heavy rainstorm. She knew the smell by heart, after spending the majority of her adultlife in it, identifying those who had long become part of that dirt. She knew it well; so why was it in her apartment?

"No…" she breathed as she turned to the hallway mirror.

In thick, muddy strokes, a message screamed,

_Up the stairs they go,_

_to the war_

_of evermore._


	9. A Lesson in Zeppelin

**Chapter Nine: A Lesson in Zeppelin**

"I refuse to accept that."

Brennan shook her head wearily. "I'm sorry…but Booth—"

"Has never done drugs," Saroyan spat out. "He smokes a cigarette once in a blue moon, but he has never, ever, even considered trying narcotics."

"There was PCP in his system," Brennan said forcefully.

Hodgins slammed his hand down on the computer monitor. "Come on, Dr. Brennan. Who are you trying to convince? You know this isn't—"

"Logical?" Brennan supplied. She chuckled mirthlessly, "Believe me, nothing has been logical since we've taken this case. I _know._"

Angela stood from her stool, her hand over her mouth. She paced across the platform, shaking her head. She finally locked eyes with her best friend, and stated, "Something's happened to you."

Brennan answered curtly, "Of course, something's happened to me, I found Booth nearly dead because of an addiction to an extremely powerful narcotic. Then, he tried to tell me lies, that some 'ghost' caused it."

"That's not what I meant," Angela frowned.

"Ghost?" Saroyan grilled.

Brennan slumped in the chair, and explained, "Booth has been suffering nightmares."

Zach cut in, "That accounts for why he appears so ill and exhausted."

"He tried to tell me the dreams were real, that some entity was causing them," Brennan finished. "Which, I shall repeat, is ridiculous. The drugs caused his hallucinations. Not to mention, there is no grounded evidence supporting spirits of any kind exist. Ghosts are stories kids make up to scare each other, and people in grief create the possibility a loved one is still around by conjuring up the idea of a corporal soul."

"Fine," Hodgins conceded. "I'm with you on the ghost side, but how in the hell did PCP get into Booth's system? Who put it there?"

Brennan bit her lower lip and Hodgins added, "Because we all know Booth's one of the good guys."

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"Well, I personally, think there is more to the case than…" Angela fought for the words, "human influence. What about that call Brennan got? It came from her own phone."

"Which either makes Brennan the kidnapper, poisoner, and ghost, or that there is something going on that we cannot comprehend," Saroyan stated, "And I personally, believe in the latter."

Brennan stood abruptly, anger rising. "Please do not tell me we are actually entertaining this notion, that some, some ghost kidnapped the children, stuck PCP in Booth's system, and writes childish little limericks on peoples' mirrors!"

"I don't think they're limericks Dr. Brennan—" Zach pointed out.

"Not the issue, Zach!" Hodgins groaned.

Angela came over to Brennan, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You look freaked."

"I'm not," Brennan snorted. "I think you're all insane."

"And I think you're being a bitch," Angela commented dryly. She smiled at Brennan's surprised expression. "But I mean that in a loving way. Like I was trying to say earlier, something happened to you earlier. Spill."

Brennan turned from the group. "There's nothing to say."

"We need to treat this like a case, people," Saroyan cut in. "Every little piece of information is critical, both the obvious and the indirect types. If we want to help Booth, and if we want to figure out what happened to those kids before they turn up as corpses, we need to hear all of it, Dr. Brennan. It is safe to assume the two incidents are connected."

Brennan stared at her fellow colleagues on the platform, as if a mutiny was threatening to brew. In a way, it had. They never should have been this involved with the case in the first place: there had only been soil samples for Hodgins to analyze. Now her team was seriously considering the possibility that a _ghost, _a ghost was partly responsible for some of the happenings. _Still…_there were things that remained a mystery. The call. Her accident-turned-hallucination. The message on her mirror…

"I refuse to entertain the notion that there is paranormal influence," Brennan said slowly, "but, yes, something has happened today. On my way back from the hospital."

* * *

"Okay, so here's a thought," Angela talked as she scoured the Internet for reliable websites. Her hands shook slightly, part from excitement and part from fear. _Brennan encountered that thing! That thing that was screwing with Booth's head. And the message on her mirror? How can she still deny that there is not always a scientific reason for every unexplainable event!_

"Up the stairs they go, to the war of evermore," Angela typed as the team gathered around anxiously. "Yields…" she paused and leaned back for the rest of the team to see. "What?" she interrogated.

Hodgins shook his head as his eyes scanned the screen. "Just a bunch of sites giving out the lyrics to a Zeppelin song."

"Not just any song," Angela pointed out.

"The Battle of Evermore," Brennan said.

Saroyan rubbed her chin and commented, "I thought this whole thing sounded familiar."

"As with a lot of Led Zeppelin's music, there is controversy of the meaning in the songs. It is rumored if one played Stairway to Heaven backwards, they would hear satanic recordings," Zach put in calmly.

The rest of the team stared in shock.

Zach shrugged his shoulders. "I have had siblings who expressed interest in the music. I did research to expand my horizons. The rumor about the satanic recording is false, it's just the sounds a record makes when played backwards.'

Saroyan whistled and announced, "O-kaaayyy, back to work in reality, where Zach and Led Zeppelin don't belong in the same thought process."

Hodgins supplied, "With the song The Battle of Evermore, it's said Robert Plant wrote the lyrics after reading a book on Scottish history. The lyrics are about the everlasting battle between night and day, which can also be interpreted as the battle between good and evil. Not to mention, many J.R.R. Tolkien fans see the lyrics as a reference to his book _Return Of The King_, where the lyrics could describe the Battle of Pelennor. '_The drums will shake the castle wall, the ring wraiths ride in black'_. Very, very cool and hardcore."

Angela added, "If we were to make some jumps in logical thinking, if there is indeed a ghost—"

Brennan sighed at the term, bit Angela continued, "then this entity is connected with the human force driving the disappearances, which is why it would be targeting Brennan and Booth."

"I still can't believe we're having this discussion," Brennan muttered.

"You got a better plan?"

"Not yet, but—"

"Then can it, Sweetie."

Brennan threw up her hands exasperatedly and conceded, "Fine. That would explain the reference 'Evermore.' Good vs. Evil, Booth and I fight criminals. How does that tie in 'stairs'? Surely that is relevant."

"The vocalist for the song, Sandy Denny, died in 1978 from a brain hemorrhage resulting from a fall down the stairs," Zach supplied.

"Dude," Hodgins joked, "were you even born in '78?"

"Enough, you two," Saroyan warned. "That still doesn't answer what's going on with the kids."

Silence was the answer; they just didn't _know, _until Brennan caught a website on the bottom of the search results. "Scroll down to the last site."

Angela moved the arrow over the link. "UniqueGraveEpithets . com?" she frowned. Clicking the website, Angela searched the page for the words 'Evermore' and 'war'. The machine whirled to life and within seconds, the group was directed to the second to final entry.

"No way…" Hodgins whispered.

Brennan straightened and murmured, "Well, at least I know I'm not going crazy."

Inscribed on a headstone of William H. Rowley was:

"May Angels Dust Your Wings"

Billy H.

1954-1970

_Up the stairs they go, to the battle of evermore._

It was Saroyan's turn to whistle in amazement. "If that isn't creepy, I don't know what is.

"Looks like Billy-boy was a 100 percent hippie," Hodgins observed. "There's a bong graved onto the bottom of his headstone for Pete's sakes!"

"We need to find out how he died," Brennan stated. "It still doesn't explain what is going on with the disappearances, but you're right: every little bit helps."

"I can look to make sure, but I'm pretty sure I know what killed him," Angela replied steadily. "May Angels Dust Your Wings. Angeldust is slang for a very powerful narcotic. I'd bet he overdosed on it, given his social status and his headstone."

"What's the drug?" Brennan asked. Somehow, she already knew the answer.

Angela felt shivers run up her spine. "It's phencyclidine, Bren. PCP."


	10. Billy

**Chapter Ten: Billy**

The sun was no longer high in the sky, but preparing to make its timeless journey west. Clouds began to blotch the already graying slate, and outside the windshield the trees rustled gently with the strengthening breeze. Traveling out of D.C., Brennan checked her directions one final time and turned towards an old-standing development, face set in a grimace.

She despised the suburbs.

Everything appeared identical on both sides of Hickory Street; the two-story houses with the white picket fence and a swimming pool, the two cars parked in the garage…the world was a diverse landscape. It was abnormal to find such places like the one she was currently at, in Brennan's mind. It was also a breeding ground for gossip, affairs, and crimes behind closed doors. All too often enough, Brennan and Booth's guilty suspect had been taken down in a suburb setting.

She wished he were there with her. It just seemed wrong to do this without him—this was his element. His argument was that questioning strangers alone was dangerous. He'd have a pig if he knew she was off playing cop.

_I don't think it's pig…I distinctly remember he told me it's cow. Have a cow._

Spotting the address she was searching for, Brennan pulled to the curb and shut the engine off. Surveying the house, she observed lights on in the living room…and a curtain rustle on the second floor. She thought she caught sight of binoculars.

_I hate the suburbs._

* * *

"The reason I'm here today, Mr. Rowley is to talk about your brother, William."

"I have no brother."

Brennan shifted her weight on the overly-cushiony chair. The balding man before squinted at her through gray eyes, and his mouth was turned down into a suspicious frown. John Rowley sat comfortably on a couch, his hands folded over a slight belly pouch. Though he was situated better than Brennan, she could tell he was a ball of nerves.

"I understand that…you're brother is deceased." Brennan stated unflinchingly.

John Rowley snapped, "That boy was a disgrace to my family. Nearly broke my mother's heart: God bless her soul. I have no brother that I acknowledge, dead or alive. Now, Dr…"

"Brennan," she supplied.

"Brennan. What exactly did you want? Why would a scientist come here to talk about rotting Billy?"

Brennan answered, "I am a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian Institute and Medico-Legal Lab. The current case I am working on involves several disappearances, and my team has come to believe that someone from William's past is involved."

_White lie never hurt anyone._

"He died in 1970, I highly doubt there's a connection."

Brennan felt her temper begin to flare. _No wonder why Booth got so frustrated sometimes. _"I just want to ask you a few questions. I could get my partner, an F.B.I. Agent, and have him bring you in formally for questions. I'd prefer not to do that."

Rowley pointed a finger at Brennan and grit out, "Billy was 15 when he took off from home. He was dead a year later, thanks to his druggie friends. Died at some concert, Lead Hindenburg or some idiotic bullshit name. My mother and I decided to let his newfound friends deal with the burial. We had nothing to do with him as soon as he took off. We are a military family; he strongly disagreed with our views. It was his way or the highway. Guess where it landed him—dead."

"I think the band was Led Zeppelin."

"Whatever."

Brennan's mind began to think more like Booth's. "If you had nothing to do with Billy, then why was your name on the website as contributor? For UniqueEpithets?"

There was a short pause before John answered, "Money. I got 200 bucks for giving the website that information. I saw it once ten years ago. I had to drive my mother up to his grave. Said she wanted to make amends to the sorry bastard, even though he was dead."

Brennan nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. Something just didn't seem right…with what, she didn't know.

"Just one more question. Are you familiar with the names Lyon Riddick, Donna Willows, Sophie Rodriguez, Lydia Groening, or Drew Himmelman?"

"No. Are we finished?"

"Yes. Thanks for your—"

John interrupted bluntly, "Now, get out of my house."

--_Cooperation. _

* * *

Brennan slammed the door of her car and sat idly in the driver's seat, her head trying to process the interview. She discovered she would make a poor detective: she hadn't learned anything new about Billy, other than the fact that he had rebelled against his family and ran from home at 15.

_Maybe big brother John had something to do with how Billy died. And now Billy's ghostie is kidnapping children and wanting revenge._

She snorted. "Incredibly, and utterly ridiculous."

Yet…

For the first time, her mind began to process what happened to her previously in the day. Could there be an outside force affecting the case? Though she couldn't believe in spirits, she did understand the phenomena occurred, without scientific reasoning.

_Yet. At one point society thought the world flat. In time, there will be an explanation for what is deemed "paranormal" or "supernatural."_

Until then, she knew she needed to go along with the idea that there was an entity, possibly William Rowley's, who was connected to the case with the missing children. There were just to many coincidences to rule out or even deny that option. How he was connected, she did not know. In addition, she saw _something_ when she was driving from the hospital, and if she hadn't, she would have been t-boned. _Not only did you see it, but you felt and heard a…change…as well. _There was also the mysterious phone call that was traced to Brennan's own cell number. However, the biggest evidence to date was Booth. For some, still undiscovered reason, it had imprinted on Booth. It nearly killed him.

_No, Bren, PCP almost killed him. Stick with the facts._

That part of the case was definitely tangible. No ghost did that…but Booth was convinced that he saw it in his apartment multiple times, and Brennan was convinced that he wasn't making it up. She knew, as she began driving off to avoid any unwanted encounters with John Rowley, what she needed to do next.

She dialed the number to Booth's room in the hospital.

"Yeah?" he answered roughly. She cringed, remembering the night before.

"It's Brennan," she answered. She felt a pang of regret for being so harsh with him, but more so for the suddenly formal quality to her voice. She said, again, "It's Bones." Truthfully, she knew Booth would never do what she accused him off. Her head said otherwise, and it was as frustrating as the current case.

"Is everything okay?"

She couldn't help but laugh. He should have been furious with her, for not being believed in. Instead, he was concerned that she was still in one piece, without him around.

"I can survive a day without you by my side."

There was a pause. She heard him ask, "What do you want?"

She detected underlying anger, and she swallowed hard. "I have updates for the case."

"I'm off the case, remember?"

"Please tell me you're going to be in a better mood than John Rowley."

"Who?"

"We have some breaks on the case…and I…I might owe you an apology. For being so harsh on you…"

"Sweetheart," Booth finally snapped, "that's not a might. That's a definite." He could almost hear her bristle at being called 'sweetheart,' especially since he didn't mean it in an endearing way. He sighed and felt some of his anger dissipate. What the hell was she expected to think? He didn't know how the PCP got into his bloodstream any more than she did.

"I said might," she repeated. "Not yet. PCP is a very human aspect of this case. You can't tell me your friend put it into your body."

"That doesn't sound like the Bones I know. What do you mean 'human aspect?' Are you trying to tell me you have a non-human aspect with the case?"

She answered simply, "Yes."

"Oh. Wow. Are you jerking me around?"

"Never. You know that," Brennan sighed.

She heard Booth whistle. "Not that I wasn't freaked before, but what in the hell happened between you storming out of here and now?"

"It's a long story. I'll come to the hospital right now," Brennan replied.

"Don't bother. I'm about to get checked out. Meet me at the Diner."

Brennan was genuinely surprised. "They're letting you go already?"

"You mean 'why aren't you going directly to prison?' Cullen recommended that I can be trusted to Internal Affairs, despite an apparent drug-addiction, so I get to go home, as long as I stay within D.C. for…until further notice. I'll explain more when we get to the Diner."

"Okay," Brennan said as the sun set below the horizon. "See you there."

She hung up, and completely missed the flicker of a boyish face in her rearview mirror.

* * *

By the time she made it to the Diner, the sky had completely blackened under the night clouds. She couldn't even discern the moon as she walked across the street. The air had chilled considerably, so she hugged her jacket tighter to her body. She could see Booth sitting inside already, and she felt the insane urge to up to him…out of the cold. Out of the night, and the sudden heaviness in the air.

_"Temperance…"_

She whirled around, and found nothing but the deserted street.

Hurrying her pace, all she could think about was getting inside the Diner. A primal instinct fought past the barriers of reason, and she felt fear. There was something watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she felt a gush of cold air. It felt like a hand touching her skin. She ran, ignoring the rational part of her mind, calmly telling her she was overreacting and letting her imagination run wild. Fright ruled everything else out. She burst into the Diner, silencing the small dinner crowd that was there. Her partner looked up from the table and shot her a querying look. Clearing her throat and trying to hide her flushed cheeks, she made her way as discreetly as she could to the booth.

She sat down and Booth commented dryly, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not funny."

He sipped his coffee and ordered one (with a side order of fries) for Brennan as soon as the waiter came by. Brennan took in her friend's appearance, and was slightly dismayed at what she saw. His five o'clock shadow was darker than normal, almost gruffy. His eyes were hollow, and his face was sunken in a sickly manner.

"Just so you know, I'll be under a narcotics investigation, and I'm suspended without pay until further notice. I think you can buy tonight's coffee," he chuckled mirthlessly.

"Yeah, sure," she said absently. "Are you okay? You look horrible."

"Like shit would be the phrase you're looking for." She grimaced and he added, "I feel okay, though. Really. Just tired. Now, tell me what happened today."

She picked at the fries that was set down in front of her and began, "It started when I drove home from the hospital…"

When she finished, he stared so intently at her that she began to fidget. Finally, he broke the quiet and demanded, "You went to some loony anti-socialite's home, alone?" She rolled her eyes and asked exasperatedly, "Of all the things I found out today, with the team's help, you're worried about John Rowley and me?"

He waved a hand in dismissal and explained, "What I am supposed to do? Call it a bad habit, alpha-male tendency, whatever—it's what I do. It's what we do." He paused again, and added gently, "Because let's face it, if we didn't, I'd definitely wouldn't be here right now."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly stopped her with an interruption, "You might want to eat your fries; they're getting cold."

She looked down at her untouched snack. She smiled weakly, "We keep coming here, and I'm going to get fat." She opted to drink the coffee, instead.

"Did you just make a joke?" he asked incredulously.

"I believe so."

"The world really has turned upside down. You're cracking jokes, and 40-year-dead hippies are haunting the both of us," Booth whistled. He tapped the side of his head and thought aloud, "So the message on your mirror, it was the exact same as the kids?"

"Yes, and it was written on Billy Rowley's grave," Brennan confirmed.

"Hmm." He mused, "I agree with Hodgins. For once. The lyrics of that Zeppelin song are about the forces of good and evil…I'm still trying to figure out which side Billy Boy is on, and what he has to do with the missing kids."

Brennan fought past her initial instinct to fight the logic of the ghost. Instead of scoffing or dismissing Booth, she asked, "Did it ever hurt you? I mean, it kept me from getting into an accident."

Booth shook his head. "No. Just scared the hell out of me. Before I almost overdosed, I had an encounter every day…hey, you know what? One time it said, '_Up the stairs they go…__you need to find them before they go__ to the war of evermore.'_"

"You just remember that now? Don't you think that was a little too important to forget?"

"Drugged up, remember? For God knows how long? I know I saw a flash of what he looked like, but I wouldn't be able to pick him out of a line up. By the way, as soon as I can, I want to see what this Billy looks like in a picture, so you know, in case he starts haunting me again, I'll be able to make you happy and recognize him," Booth defended himself.

Brennan shrugged. "So what does that message mean? I don't understand."

Booth tapped his fingers against the table. "Good vs. evil, keep the kids from going to that battle…help them keep their innocence maybe? Keep them from going Darth Vadar on our asses; I don't know."

"I don't know what that means."

"Of course you don't."

Just then the waiter who served them their food approached the two, informing the Diner was closing early. Booth looked at Brennan and asked, "Is it alright if we take this back to your place? Mine's under surveillance, and if Cullen found out I was still working a case, he'd have a cow."

She smiled at him then, suddenly radiant. He smiled back at her, missing the joke completely, but not caring. For one moment, everything was all right again. They took their coffee to go, and exited the Diner.

Their waiter watched them go. Bringing a cell from his pocket, he discreetly dialed a number. Several seconds later, he reported in hushed tones, "They're going back to the Doc's house. Left a minute ago. The take down should be easy for you."

Outside the restaurant the wind began to howl.

* * *

Something was terribly wrong.

He felt sick coming out of her car. The edges of his vision began to fade and blur, and he had to grip the car door to keep from stumbling. He began to sweat feverishly, and tremors shook his body. He looked at Brennan helplessly, and saw that she had stopped mid-stride.

"I think I'm going to be ill…" she breathed out.

"Let's get into the apartment," he mumbled. The coffee slipped from his hands and crashed to the pavement. He sloshed through the mess and grabbed Brennan's arms, leading her up the stairs.

"Either our friend is back," she fought to concentrate, "or we are suffering from the side effects of ph…ph…"

"PCP, Bones," he supplied for her. She fumbled with the key to her apartment, and after several failed tries, the door swung open.

"Rubbery feeling in the legs, nausea, dizziness, unable to concentrate, distortion of time and space perception," she said breathlessly as she sank uselessly down onto the couch. "Def'itly drug," she stated.

He fumbled for the phone. "We need help…"

She started laughing. "Where's your friend?"

He shook his head; it was a bad move because the room jerked in and out of frame. "Not here," he answered. "It's different from before…we got drugged."

He fell back onto his haunches, and discovered he had held the phone upside down. Flipping it over, he thought hard about when it could have happened.

_Hospital…too long a wait for drug to kick in…_

_Bones called…_

_The Diner…_

The image of the spilled coffee filled his mind.

He couldn't understand.

The door burst open again, and Booth half-expected to see the form of Billy Rowley in the entrance. Instead, a very human figure rushed toward Brennan. Booth launched himself onto his feet and stumbled toward the intruder. He saw the barrel of a gun coming out from under a vest, but Booth plowed into the masked man anyway. He fell on top of Brennan's attacker, and both were slammed to the ground. The gun spun across the floor. Immediately Booth was thrown off like a rag doll, and his head hit the hardwood floor with a painful thud. Brennan tried grabbing the gun, but found she was unable to move her arms where she wanted. The assailant pulled her up by the hair and whispered harshly into her ear, "You're coming with me. Stay silent or I'll shoot your partner dead."

He went to reach for the gun, until he discovered it was no longer on the floor. He whirled around using Brennan as a shield. From the back of his jeans he pulled a switchblade out and held it to her jugular. Closely. Booth had stood up with the gun now in his possession.

"You're higher than an airplane," the stranger taunted. "You don't know what you're aiming at."

Booth couldn't answer him: he was right. Truthfully, all he could see was the nearly unconscious form of his best friend and partner in the vice grip of an attacker, with an extremely sharp knife against her throat. He needed to get her to a hospital. He felt a feral rage, and he wanted to pull the trigger. Badly. But the room was still spinning ferociously, and he couldn't stop blinking. He was on the verge of going into convulsions, and the images his eyes were processing were fragmented, grayed, and jumpy.

"Booth…" Brennan choked out. "Behind you."

He looked in the mirror behind Brennan, unwilling to lose balance by turning around. In the reflection, he saw a dark shadow. The room stilled slightly, and he was able to make out a pair of eyes. For once, instead of fear, he felt hope.

"About time you showed up," Booth grit out.

Brennan's attacker looked nervously around the room. As he began to edge towards the door, he threw back, "Higher than a jet plane, man. No one's here."

A voice filled Booth's head.

"_Aim at your Bones. Right between the eyes. Aim at her. And everything will work out."_

Booth shook his head. He couldn't…he wanted to throw up on the spot but choked it down. He was stuck: if he didn't react, Brennan would be taken God knows where, and almost overdosing on PCP to boot.

_But to take a shot at her? What the hell? I can't even focus…_

His broken thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice.

_"Take the shot now!"_

He swallowed, then remembered, he couldn't possible be hallucinating the voice.

Brennan had seen it, too.

Without waiting any longer, he aimed the barrel on Brennan's forehead, and pulled the trigger. He heard the man moan in agony as the shot blasted through the air, and into the man's right shoulder. In an absurd realization, Booth understood that his perception was extremely _screwed_, and second, he never would have pulled the trigger if he were sober.

He laughed at the irony.

Brennan kicked out at the fallen, bleeding attacker and stumbled back. A neighbor who had heard the commotion had already alerted the cops, and the screams of sirens sounded in the distance. Booth pulled Brennan close to him, and looked to the mirror for the darkened figure.

The mirror only reflected the two friends.


	11. The Kids Aren't Alright

_AN: This is the last chapter of Evermore. _

**Chapter Eleven: The Kids Aren't Alright**

_One day later…_

Brennan ripped the flimsy white hospital bracelet of her wrist, and tossed the offending plastic into a nearby trashcan. She leaned her head against the wall of the FBI observation room, and willed away the nauseous sensation at the pit of her stomach and the intense throbbing in her skull. Booth had scolded her for not staying longer at the hospital, but he didn't deny her the right to watch him interrogate her attacker. She looked into the two-way mirror showing Booth doing exactly that: grilling a middle-aged man with a gigantic, spray-painted anarchist insignia on a Sex Pistols t-shirt (with arm in a sling), and Booth was continuing to act like he wasn't as hungover as Brennan. _The situation would have been comedic if in a story or on television_, Brennan mused thoughtfully. Considering the elephant-sized dose of PCP she had been given, she was doing remarkably well. She felt, instead of how one would normally feel after nearly overdosing on the narcotic, as if she had ten drinks too many with Angela.

She saw Booth pause and turn toward the two-way mirror. He discreetly swallowed two Advil, no doubt for the pounding headache he was now suffering from. As he turned back, Brennan recalled how quickly Booth was reinstated. No sooner had they arrived at the hospital for observation, Cullen had alerted Internal Affairs that there was strong evidence supporting that Booth was poisoned with PCP, instead of the initial accusations that he had an addiction. Several hours later, the narcotics investigation was terminated, allowing Booth to interrogate Mr. Michael Jensen, the sorry man who made the monumental mistake of trying to kidnap Brennan. Jensen was lucky in one aspect: the bullet had pierced nothing but flesh, and was released immediately to the authorities, in order to be questioned.

Brennan felt a small smile tug at her lips. No doubt Jensen was in pain, anyway.

The past twenty-four hours (and week for that matter) was a whirlwind of memories and images…the most vivid being how Booth miraculously shifted his aim from her head to her assailant's shoulder. Goosebumps traversed her neck and arms. She _saw_ the thing that kept her from crashing in her mirror at the apartment. It frustrated her to no end that what she did see seemed nothing more than a black blob. It nearly infuriated her that after she was freed from Jensen's grasp, that _thing_ had disappeared. The only calming sense she had obtained from that whole experience was that Booth had seen it, too. _At least_, she thought humorlessly, _I'm not going crazy_.

"Get bent."

In the interview room, Jensen calmly sat back in his chair, and flipped Booth the middle finger. Brennan cringed. _Booth's not going to like that._ She was amazed that thus far, Jensen hadn't brought additional bodily harm to himself. She could sense that her partner wanted to pound the little twerp the way a football jock bullied the class nerd. Jensen was clearly proud about what he almost accomplished, and clearly felt a tremendous amount of pride in his screw-the-government-I-may be-45-but-I-can-act-20-anarchist image.

There was movement beside Brennan, and an agent opened the door to the room holding Booth and Jensen. Booth stuck his head close to the door so Jensen wouldn't hear. The other agent informed Booth, "The waiter from the Diner was located and is being brought in. Nineteen years of age, no priors, and happens to be your new buddy's kid brother. His name is Dean Jensen."

"Thanks," Booth processed. The door was closed again, and Booth sauntered over to Jensen. He said, very casually, "Your brother Dean is being brought in. We know he slipped the PCP into the coffees since the beginning of this case."

"Lay off my brother!" Jensen demanded. "He's just a kid who wanted to make a buck. He didn't even know what he was giving you and that author bitch."

Booth retorted, "Right, and Mother Teresa was a prostitute. Your brother isn't a kid anymore. He gets jail time if convicted for some pretty serious charges. This isn't a fairy tale, bud. Dean is being charged for PCP possession, two counts of attempted murder—"

"He wasn't trying to kill you!" Jensen spat.

"Doesn't matter. Dr. Brennan and myself nearly had cardiac arrest from the drugs your brother slipped into the coffee. That's attempted murder. He's also being charged for aiding an attempted kidnapping," Booth finished. Brennan saw his fists clench at the memory of witnessing a knife being pressed to his partner's throat. He leaned over the table and stared directly into Michael Jensen's eyes. "That's not the worst of it, Mikey. You and your brother are the prime suspects in the disappearances of five children."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jensen demanded. "What kids?"

"Lyon Riddick, Donna Willows, Sophie Rodriguez, Lydia Groening, and Drew Himmelman disappeared within the last week, ages 5-8. No ransom has yet to be made," Booth gritted.

"Yeah, those kids are all over the news. But what makes you think Dean or I know where they are? Huh?" Jensen charged.

"You seem willing enough to try ransoming my partner, you son of a bitch," Booth finally exploded.

"Listen up, you government prick, I have nothing to do with those kids, and neither does my brother. I know the law, that's only circumstantial evidence. 'Oh, look, he tried to ransom this person, let's charge him for this, too!' It won't hold up: why do you think I waived my lawyer rights, dumbass?" Jensen taunted.

"Genius, you confessed to committing felonies. If you had a lawyer, he would have told you to can it a long time ago."

"I can plead insanity."

"Knock yourself out," Booth retorted. He shook his head and asked abruptly, "Why my partner?"

"For being a civilian who willingly works for the force that crushes the First Amendment and imprisons the free peoples of this country," Jensen stated. At Booth's un-amused glare, Jensen admitted, "Look, I live in her building. I needed the money to pay off some debts. My trust fund dried out. You and I both know she would have raked in a lot of money."

"Why the PCP?"

"I didn't want to hurt her. So drugging her was a good option. PCP isn't as hard to get as some think it is. As for you, amigo, I knew from observation that you're practically her bodyguard—"

"Hey!" Brennan exclaimed from behind the glass. "I can take care of my own!"

"—so I gave you a little PCP beforehand to loosen you up."

"By 'loosen' you mean either kill or hospitalize," Booth accused.

"Take it whichever way you want it," Jensen challenged.

Brennan said aloud, "Why doesn't Booth just hit him already?"

Cullen's voice from behind answered, "Because he needs to make sure those kids are alive." Brennan turned toward Booth's superior, and was surprised at the sympathizing look she was given from him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Fine," she fibbed. Slowly, over the years, Cullen's feelings for Booth's partner had changed from irritation to respect with annoyance, to actually liking the woman. Brennan acknowledged the fact and asked in return, "Why couldn't Jensen just bash me over the head or something? He lives in the same building as I do."

"He probably knew you'd put up a good fight if you were at your 100 percent," Cullen replied. He sighed as he watched Booth and told Brennan discreetly, "I do believe I owe that man an apology. I should never have believed he was using that stuff in the first place."

Brennan studied her friend from behind the glass. "Me too," she said softly.

"You couldn't have known," Cullen said gently.

"That's not the only thing I have to apologize for," Brennan added to herself. Cullen threw her a puzzled glance, but let it rest. Brennan knew in her heart that Booth was right about the ghost, which was more than likely Billy Rowley's. She had seen it. There was no erasing the memory, and she knew she couldn't use the argument that she was high because Booth had seen it the exact moment she did. She needed to apologize for not believing in him. Partners trusted one another; she hadn't put her trust in him.

At that moment, Booth came into the viewing room. He shut the door quietly and looked to the ceiling. "I think the kids are dead. As for our friend in the other room…I don't think he has anything to do with the disappearances. He has an alibi for the Lyon Riddick's disappearance. He claims he was at an anarchist convention, with over 100 people to testify he was there. Lie detector can confirm it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to confirm his story."

"Anarchists have meetings?" Brennan asked flatly.

"Apparently."

Brennan shook her head. "So what does all this mean?"

"It means," Booth groaned, "that there is another person out there. We have the right guy for the wrong thing."

"They're two completely separate occurrences? The kids' disappearances and the PCP poisoning of you and me are two coincidences?" Brennan shook her head. "I'm sorry, Booth, I can't buy that."

"Penny for your thoughts, Bones?"

Before she could explain, the agent who informed Booth earlier about the waiter, Dean Jensen, told Booth, "Just got a call from Davis. Dean Jensen was given a lie detector test. He knows nothing about the missing kids, but the sensors picked up incongruities when questioned about slipping PCP into your coffees."

Brennan remained silent as Booth crossed his arms. "We're no better than we started off. The brothers have nothing to do with the kids."

Brennan disagreed quietly, "I refuse to believe that the PCP connections are happenstances. Billy Rowley overdosed on PCP. Billy Rowley's grave epithet was found on 4 of the 5 missing children's mirrors. We were poisoned with PCP."

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "There are such things as coincidences."

"I know you don't believe that."

Booth threw up his hands and replied, "I don't like it anymore than you do. Not getting those children back to their families…Parker is the same age as them. I wouldn't know what to do if I were in their shoes." He rubbed his forehead. "I don't know what to do. We are still way out of our elements. I do homicide. You do dead bodies." He paused and added, "Not literally."

Brennan snickered slightly, which in turn caused Booth to grin. Cullen cleared his throat after watching the entire exchange and stated, "I hate to break this up, but Agent Booth, I believe I do owe you and apology."

Booth repeated Cullen's reassurance to Brennan. "You couldn't have known. You did what anyone in your position would have done." The two shook hands and Cullen left, repeating, "I truly am sorry, Booth."

Booth nodded his head and leaned back up against the wall. He turned his head to Brennan and sighed, "I won't give up on them. I can't. We should re-examine everything we have on the first kid, Lyon Riddick. His father seemed a little off at the Diner."

"I didn't mention much more about Billy Rowley with Cullen here, but I want you to get federal on John Rowley."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like him."

Booth said instead, "How about we question him again because his answers were suspicious."

Brennan, lost in her own thoughts, began to pace. "There has to be a connection between the Jensens and the disappearances. We can conclude that the black shadow you and I've seen is Billy Rowley."

Booth remained silent and Brennan continued, "Billy Rowley told you to find the kids. Billy died on PCP. We nearly died on PCP. There is something we're missing. Simple as that."

"You really believe Billy Rowley is the ghost?" Booth stared intently at her, almost amazedly.

"Logically, yes."

"You didn't believe in ghosts."

"I know what I saw."

Booth whistled. "This week really has been a tornado, hasn't it?"

Brennan's eyes were cast to the floor, and she stilled. Booth cocked his head to the side and asked, "What's up?"

She forced her gaze up, and replied almost ashamedly. "Cullen's not the only one who owed you an apology. I'm sorry for not believing you…about everything."

"I'm not mad, Bones."

"That's not the point. I owe you a lot more than a 'I'm sorry'…you were right about an entity being involved, and I practically mocked you…."

Booth waved his hand in dismissal. "Cut it out, okay?"

"Cut what out?"

"Remember when I told you that you were like a guy? As a partner and friend."

"Which would have made you the woman…"

Booth snorted. "You're acting like the woman now. I know you're sorry, and I know I was…harsh at times. You are the scientist. You need to process facts and see hard evidence. You rationalize. I am the cop. I have gut instincts. I can read people the way you read a skeletal structure. If you weren't the way you were, our partnership would fail. I should have understood trying to make you believe what I feel, without giving you the chance to be a squint, would have caused a rift. But we're okay, now. Alright? Besides, you saved my life. You came when I called."

Brennan gave him a small smile. "Squint, huh? I haven't heard that for awhile." She thought back to the night where she found Booth having seizures from the PCP. She never realized how close she came to not ever being called Bones again.

That frightened her more than the prospect of a ghost.

"So…am I back to being the guy?"

"Sure, Bones."

Awkwardly. Brennan raised her arms and smiled timidly, "Guy hug?"

He embraced her, and she felt him sigh against her shoulder. "We have to find those kids. Billy-boy won't leave us alone until we do. That I know."

"We will, Booth." She hugged him tighter. "Glad to have you back."

"Same."

She pulled away and suddenly added, "Just because I believe in Billy Rowley doesn't mean I believe in Heaven and Hell, your God, haunted houses, and the boogeyman."

He rolled his eyes, but said lightly, "You'll believe it when you see it?"

"Yes."

Booth's cell vibrated in his pocket, and he answered it on the third ring. Brennan watch his eyes transform from calm with a sense of purpose to frantic and then, angered. She shook her head, knowing that the sudden lightheartedness she had shared with Booth a minute ago wouldn't be back for a long while.

_It's begun again. Another child is missing._

"Shit!" He slammed his phone shut and gritted out, "We got a problem, Bones."

"Another child?"

"No, not another kid. It's Cam, Bones. Cam."

Brennan's jaw dropped. "What? How…"

Booth fought rising panic. "Cam's missing. Her room was trashed. And guess what they found on the mirror."

"No…"

He whispered, "Up the stairs they go…"

"…to the war of evermore. Booth, what in the hell is going on?"

Booth's eyes searched hers, trying to derive an answer from the sudden chaos. He shook his head. "I don't know, Bones. I don't know."

TO BE CONTINUED

**AN: Surprise! There's going to be a sequel! Thank you all, ye faithful reviewers and readers. Without you, this would have remained in my head. Mistakes are mine since most of the time I post these chapters around 3 in the morning. Damn insomnia. **


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